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Or not.

Time passed.

When the strangers came in, there was not much to distinguish them from the other migrant wanderers that visited the inn. Aladris was in a corner, fiddling with a dagger. It was an unfortunate habit she had picked up, and yet it kept her mind occupied, her hands busy, and provided not a little bit of training in dexterity. There was little else to do. No point in killing anyone. Might as well see how many blades she could juggle, or balance end on end, or form into a circle around a knothole.

But there was still something that caught her eye about them. Perhaps it was, as she learned later, that they were new in Limbo. Or perhaps it was a common tie, for she discovered, after some casual, careful inquiry that they, too, were there by Draem’s magical graces.

Unlike so many, they seemed to stand an actual chance of getting out. Aladris knew not why, but that’s how she felt. And so when, a short time later, they departed the Rusty Nail, she went with them. And never saw that place again.

The journey through Limbo she took with them was long, and not a little disturbing. Aladris realized why she had retreated into her small shelter there, an island of normalcy amidst the mystery and madness without. And yet, as disturbing as the madness was, it was the mystery that particular disturbed her. Once, upon encountering a golden-auraed mage named Elden, she received this cryptic message:

Your love is now your enemy. Your love now stands against your enemy. Tread soft as you go, and shun not the kindness of friends.

Gibberish, in a sense, but portentous, and she feared portent. Who was her love? Or was it a what? Did this speak of Aladrin, or of something or someone very different?

That everyone else in the group got equally cryptic warnings or counsel did not assuage her worry.

She gripped her sword more tightly, and walked on.

They had escaped Limbo between great stone pillars, to find themselves back in an inn room. And from there, though free at last, she found herself bound up in a series of ever-crescendoing adventures that left her off-balance and confused as to the course she ought to take.

Free, she was still bound in gratitude to those who had helped her escape. She learned they were agents of the Kingdom of Shelar, to the north. They had traveled to Midpoint in the company of a high elvish mage, only to be ambushed and banished to Limbo.

She disengaged from them as soon as she could, without concern of being rude, overwhelmed by a desire to be alone. She spent the next few hours seeing to her own safety. She did not know, at least at first, how long she had been gone, but certainly the Knife and his agents would not appreciate her reappearance. To be sure, though, she’d give him reason to more than simply not appreciate it.

Softly. Gently. The one who hurries dies first.

But what’s happened to Aladrin?

She soon discovered that the Assassin’s Guild, under the Knife’s direction, was set against her new friends. She began learning her way about the city again, finding out who was still alive, who was not, and which of her contacts were still available. Without revealing that she was back in town, she poked and probed at the mystery.

In the end, she decided on the direct approach. If some force for Good wanted her as an ally, she could no longer be an assassin. But this would be personal, not professional.

It would also be stupid, as events demonstrated. Your feelings will betray you. Enjoy the hunt after it is over, not before.

It was the work of a few hours to track the Guild’s new headquarters to an inn in the bad part of town. Go in fast and easy, that was her motto. A thousand throats ...

The security arrangements hadn’t changed much since she’d been away, and she left the outer guards pinned in place, at casual glance still alive and at their posts. She moved quickly down the corridors beneath the structure, and into a large room being used for some arcane ceremony. Afore she could move, she was paralyzed by a spell, caught, trapped, prisoned in her own flesh.

No! Not again! Dear goddess, not again!

But the goddess did not help her, unless it was to force her to be a spectator to the final battle between the Shelari agents and the Knife, his consort Silana, and several assassins. Silana, the mage, was slain, but the Knife escaped. In the end, her new-met comrades had what they had been looking for, the magical sword which was at the center of the ceremony. They freed her, and went on their way back to the north. Leaving her.

Leaving her with the same old decision. What now? What purpose to put her life to? Where could she use the only skills she had?

As if on cue, a bird on the windowsill of her inn room cawed loudly. As she turned, she saw a white raven, which quickly shifted form to become an elderly man in long, white robes.

Whoosh went the throwing knife, straight through the apparition and out the window into the street beyond.

"There, there," said Draem Cloudmaster. "I had no desire to startle you with my illusory self."

Her weapons were at the ready, but what could steel do against such powerful magicks. He had banished her to Limbo before — if he should do it again, could she bear it? Ought she throw herself on her sword, first?

But Draem was continuing. "I wanted to return these to you, as something of an apology for your sojourn. I ought not to have gotten myself indebted to that treacher the Knife and his hussy. Please take them, as my token."

She looked at where he was pointing, and saw there were weapons on the floor there. Her weapons, gone since she’d been in Limbo. Her sword, capable of the forms of a dozen different shapes, and deadly in each. Her sai. Her real throwing knifes, hand-balanced and like extensions of her own hands. A handful of other items, equally deadly. She dashed forward, only to come to a halt. Dare she crouch down to pick them up, before the apparition of one she had sworn to kill?

"I certainly home this evens the score," Draem murmured. "I knew their enchantment would work only for you, so the Knife wasn’t interested in them. I think you’ll find them all in working order. And that you realize, of course, that I am convinced that they — and you — are no great danger to me."

He looked long and hard at her, old, old eyes looking like death incarnate. "See that it remains that way, or you may find Limbo pleasant by comparison."

"Don’t you want to know what it was like?" she asked, not quite allowing the bravado-based sarcasm into her voice.

"Not at all," said Draem, his form fading. "I’ve been there before. Dreadful place. Good luck in your quest, be it for life or death." And then he was gone.

She slowly, carefully stooped to pick up her enchanted weapons — and felt a sudden weight about her neck. She froze, then looked down, to see that a silver necklace looped down from there, the end of which was a silver-and-gem replica of a blue rose.

"I would have given you a grey one," Draem’s disembodied voice came from all about her, "but it wouldn’t be quite right yet. I think this one will do nicely enough, for the time being. Useful, and all that. We will meet again."

And then there was silence, which remained for several long minutes before she dared move.

She took off the necklace and looked at it. Sapphire, perhaps, the stone was, or something else. It was — attractive. If she were smart, she’d throw it away. There was something magical about it, and she mistrusted magic, moreso than ever. And yet, she was willing to use magic when it was useful, hence her enchanted blade. Take the advantages that come your way, but don’t assume they’ll always be there. She shrugged, and put it back on, feeling its warmth against her breast.

She sifted through the items, belting each one back on after getting the feel of it again, like what she imagined being reunited with a lover would be like. And when she had gotten to the bottom of the stack, she found something else ...

She examined it with great caution. It appeared to be a large throwing knife, well-crafted. Why had he left this behind, too. A mistake? Or something more sinister?

Aladris hefted the knife, then threw it at the far wall of the room. She expected it to burst into flames, or vanish like a puff of smoke, but, instead, it struck her target, a vertical beam, dead center, sinking in deeply. Then, an instant later, it pulled itself out and flew back to her hand.

She smiled. Mistake or apology, it had her name on it. This was far more useful than any pendant could be.

She was wrong again, of course. But it would be some time before she realized it.

She sat astride the roan, on the last turn of the road whence Midpoint was visible. Her life had gone around too many circles, and what direction it now took, she did not know.

To kill the Knife, that seemed one certain goal. He was too powerful an enemy to leave loose, and her vengeance against him burned too brightly to wisely set aside. He had been spotted traveling north from the city gates. Smart man, that.

What of her brother? Was he still alive? Nobody in the city knew. Her goddess had said he was "fled." Why? How? She felt she should be angry, feel abandoned, but she had to know at the same time that he was safe — or that he was beyond safety.

At any rate, Midpoint was no longer her city. She would have to turn her back on it, just as she had turned her back on her profession.

Finally, what of those strangers who had rescued her from Limbo, and from the Guild. That was a debt, though disavowed by them, and she hated owing debts. Fortunately, their paths had also taken them north. That made her way clear.

Besides, maybe they’d help her get the Knife.

Smiling faintly, Aladris rode her horse down the hill, and Midpoint was lost to sight.

Faster and faster events reeled about her, like a bard’s tale sped up to finish ere the clock tolled.

She had gone to Shelar, had taken service to the king there, Maris, and worked to repay the debt she owed. She might well have succeeded, had not everything come crashing down about her, as though the fates themselves were conspiring to rob her of any peace or purpose.

First, there came assassination and intrigue, even within the court of Shelar. Maris was slain, his rightful heir imprisoned, and Prince Darem was upon the throne. Civil war broke out, and her comrades, "troubleshooters" for Maris, were among the first slain, betrayed.

Even as this happened, waves of refugees began to arrive from the south. Something horrible was happening there. Armies of undead, moving at the behest of some dark power nobody knew, were slowly marching northwards. Hraeme was fallen, Midpoint besieged — and Aladris knew that Shelar, divided against itself, could not stand.

And so she fled. Her debts were discharged, or those she owed them to dead. So she told herself. In a sense, she chose to exile herself to her own limbo before she could see it all end.

For six months, she lived in a small hut in the mountains to the northwest of Shelar. Nothing to do but wait for the next day to roll around. Keep muscles limber, weapons sharp, and wait ...

Six months later, they came. A half-dozen children, all that remained of a band of refugees. Scared half out of their wits, they had still managed to escape whilst their elders met their doom at the hands of the undead. They ranged in age from twelve down to four. And Aladris realized that here, at last, was a cause she could champion.

They set out, trying to get to one of the smaller cities to the north, hoping against hope to find find some safety. A futile dream, for all their good hopes. A half dozen times they were attacked by small bands of walking dead — zombies, for the most part, though a few were more advanced in their decay, mere skeletons. A couple of the older children — their leader, a girl named Meral, and the oldest of the boys, red-haired Corul — could wield weapons, though Aladris set them to organizing the other kids, keeping them safe and moving, especially the smaller and more shell-shocked of them, while she fought off each sortie.

The battling was grim, for much of what she would ordinarily do to disarm or immobilize where numbers were against her had no effect. The few cantrips she had learned were of limited use against creatures that could not fear, that felt no pain. A crack shot with the bow, such a penetrating weapon did little against those who lacked vital organs, who bled nothing but the foul ichor of rot.

Her most effective weapon was the sword-staff, or reaping sword, known in the Southern Isles as the naginata. The staff gave her range, and let her make broad, sweeping strokes, to crush with one end, hack with the other. She learned quickly that it was enough, for the moment, merely to disable her foes — take out their legs, so that they could only crawl; sever their heads, so that their bodies were blinded. Destroying them was a luxury. If she could merely save the children for that one day or night, it was a victory.

At the long last, though, their time ran out. They had passed out of the mountains down to the plains that descended to Drominar. And here they found the devastation they feared — burned-out farms, desecrated shrines, fouled wells, and the like. And, most subtly terrifying of all, an utter lack of bodies, though plenty of blood upon walls and floors.

She could escape, she knew. She could survive in the harshest climes, hide from any pursuer. She’d learned some of the secrets of the rose pendant Draem had given her — the ability to mold her form, physically, as a disguise; the ability to hide from magicks that would detect her mind or spirit; and immunity from most of what could physically harm her. Not all, mind you — she had learned that against one of the most arcanely powerful undead she’d fought on the bridge at Wirreth’s Crossing, where she felt her very soul being plucked after.

Still, for all that, she could have hidden. But not with the children. And what, then, would have been the point?

They retreated to the mountains, hoping their incursion into the area conquered by the dark armies had gone unnoticed. It had not. That night, they came upon Aladris and the children, and in an abandoned grain mill, they made their stand.

"Get back!" she shouted over her shoulder. She was fighting a losing battle, slowly retreating up the stairs to the storerooms atop the mill. She was a match for any one, for even a half-dozen of them. But there were scores appearing for each one she slew, and among them were creatures more powerful than she dared face, especially with the children.

Screams from behind her caught her attention. Clear the path your eyes seek to follow. She caught the zombie before her with a great blow from the butt of her staff — caving in its head, and sending it tumbling back down the stairs, dragging down its companions.

She turned and ran up the rest of the stairway, to find the children, most of them, huddling against the far wall as a green mist was oozing up between the slats, taking on the form —

Her blade scythed through it as it achieved solidity, and it screamed, toppling over and melting away. But others were coming up through different parts of the floor, and she couldn’t stop them all, even with the feeble aid that Corul and Meral were lending. And, already, the attackers were reaching the top of the stair —

A gong rang in her head. "Ah. There you are."

Draem’s misty form stood beside a round, coruscating doorway in the back wall of the mill-house’s upper floor. A doorway which had not been there before.

"Wizard! Stop this!"

He looked at her, some strange mix of emotions across his face. "I cannot, but for a few moments." With a shock, Aladris realized that the undead around her were still, unmoving. "Nor can She who helped you before. But I can free you to do what you can do yourself. Come, children."

The young ones were all staring at him, and back at her. "You — you are taking them?"

"Someplace I can go, and they, but where you cannot follow. Not as yet."

She opened her mouth, and he added, "I will do them no harm. That is not my way, though it is not my way to do favors like this, either. It pays a debt I owe, and I loathe not paying my debts nearly as much as you do. Children, hurry."

They were all looking at her. After a moment, she nodded. "Go with him."

After a moment, Meral said, "Come on," shepherding the rest. They would do well with her as their leader. Better, perhaps, than they had —

"I’m staying," said Corul, bravely. "I’ll take my chances with you, Aladris."

She smiled at him, tight-lipped. Part of it was bravado, part of it a puppy-love crush she’d recognized but been unable to quash. "Go with the rest. They need your protection. I will — join you when I can." Though that would be a while, if what Draem said was true.

Corul looked like he would object, but instead saluted her gallantly and went through the doorway with the rest, vanishing into the light beyond.

Draem’s misty figure nodded. "Were I you, I’d make my way back to Shelar. Something awaits you there."

"Death?" Aladris asked, simply.

"Perhaps. Perhaps something you’ll not welcome as much, but profit by a great deal more." He turned to go.

"Wizard!"

He turned, to see Aladris’ rapier pointing at his breast. "If they come to harm, I will find out, and I will avenge them."

Draem snorted, as though one or another of the thoughts in that sentence was absurd. "You have quite enough to avenge already, gelenri. I’d not be the one to burden you with yet more. There are worse things to live for than to take a life, but better things as well, as I’ve learned over many, many years. Farewell, Aladris."

And he was gone, through the door, seeming to pull it into nothingness behind him.

A stirring of motion caught her eye. The undead on all sides were beginning to move, whatever affect Draem had on them wearing rapidly off.

She ran for a small window to one side of the upper floor and dove through it, landing in the mill-pond below, whence she made her escape.

It was not until many miles, many hours later, that she wondered how it was that Draem had used her brother’s nickname for her.

She sat on the grey dappled horse she’d found, up on a low hill, overlooking the smoky outskirts of Shelar. Even the fire from a thousand blazes, rising in inky clouds through the autumn air could not hide the darkness in that city, nor its danger to her. From the south they’d come, even as she had come, and there had been brief, lucid moments when she wondered if there was a connection there — whether she was the one who had brought death, sent it washing like waves against the walls of the great city, against and over, until all that moved within — were the gods merciful — was not life, but a mockery thereof.

Aladris did not know what Draem had expected her to find there, save death and destruction. She did not know what she had expected to find, herself, save that now there seemed little left for her to do here. Avenging one life — her own, her brother’s, something simple like that — that, she could do. Avenging an entire city, the entire world — that was far beyond her powers.

What would become of her? She knew she should be asking, what she would do, but it seemed that all too much of what had passed for her life was things done to her by others, for good or for ill. And she had to wonder, as a chill, smoky breeze whipped around her, tossing her cloak, what would be done to her next?

She would survive it. That she knew. But as what, and how, she could not say. All she knew is that there had to be more than what she saw below her. What it was, she could not say. But she felt its coming, and her hand crept to the hilt of her sword. She would be ready for it. Or so she prayed.

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Copyright © 2001 by Dave Hill

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